


Ab Absurdo

by Guede



Series: The Marriage of Heaven and Hell [11]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angst and Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Cultural Differences, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Holidays, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Magic, Moving On, Multi, Pack Dynamics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deck the halls with foxy squabbles, fa la la la la la la la.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ab Absurdo

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted in 2011.

Alberto held onto the door against another cold blast sweeping down the alleyway, and wondered if he _had_ really heard it. True, it was a bit late for someone to be dropping off a delivery, but it was the holiday season and they had been running out of everything down to the spare teaspoons. Of course everyone was in the same boat and he had thought they’d have to just muddle through again by giving away Adriana’s pastries and having Paolo charm all the irate customers, but then again, he had overheard Zlatan threatening brimstone and frog-storms so maybe…

There weren’t any trucks parked at the end of the alley, even people terrified of giant fire-spitting demons didn’t bring the dairy during peak lunch time, and three people “going out for a smoke” had come back in so confused that they had thought that the inside was actually outside, and had tried to take their plates back out. And Alberto was getting a sort of queasy, nervous feeling, as if things were going on just beyond his sight. He wouldn’t ever call himself the brightest or the calmest person around, but even he knew how to put those pieces together.

“Hello?” he tried. His voice came out thin and cracked and he winced, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello? Um, is any…all right, look, I…I’m pretty sure you’re there. And you probably know this already, but Sandro and Paolo are angels—I mean, they used to be, and Sandro’s still not that fond of demons, even Zlatan…and Zlatan will probably try to eat you. So…I don’t know if you’re—gah!”

Gianluigi whipped back his hand as if he wanted to cut it off, then twitched slightly in the face. He took a deep breath, then awkwardly petted Alberto on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. I forgot about making noise.”

He was a lot better these days about not immediately jumping to the conclusion that he’d hurt Alberto, but Alberto could still tell he had to work hard at it. Alberto put his hand up over Gianluigi’s wrist for a moment, then smiled up at the angel in an attempt to be reassuring and encouraging. Which probably looked like he was spasming, but Gianluigi stopped looking like he was going to hit himself as soon as Alberto turned away.

“It’s okay.” Alberto had to take his hand back so he could hold the door open. “The wind’s really loud today anyway, so I don’t know if I would’ve heard—you’re early! I thought you had a meeting.”

“I did. Which I duly attended until I determined that it was no longer useful,” Gianluigi muttered, pursing his lips. He glanced at Alberto again, then sighed. “I am sorry. I know you’ve explained this to me before, but I still do not understand the point of speaking about matters besides work to those with whom I work. It’s not relevant to what I am doing with them and I don’t enjoy it.”

“I…well, it’s okay, you don’t have to make small talk if you don’t like it…” There was going to be another cranky phone call from Gianluigi’s supervisor again, Alberto thought as he absently looked down. And she was going to ask if Alberto could talk to Gianluigi because she had some odd idea based on one staff party that Gianluigi was…was foreign and just didn’t get the culture. Which was kind of true but also not really…oh. “Why do you have your spear with you?”

Alberto could see just the butt sticking out from behind Gianluigi’s back, and even though they were in the very back of the restaurant and all the angels were really good at making people think they hadn’t really seen something weird, it still wasn’t a chance he wanted to take. And anyway, Gianluigi never took that thing out of the closet unless he was going off with Zlatan to kill some monster.

Gianluigi apparently saw where Alberto’s thoughts were headed and immediately started trying to not let Alberto see him panicking again. “It’s not that demon,” he said, his hand going up and down and never quite touching the spot on Alberto’s face it reached towards. “It’s—nothing’s wrong. I don’t have to go out. I—I don’t want you to worry.”

“I—it’s okay, I’m worried anyway but…oh, damn it, please don’t.” Some days Alberto really didn’t understand why Gianluigi still hung around him. Then he shook off his stupid problems and grabbed the angel’s hand and focused on Gianluigi. “Just—look, tell me why it’s here and I promise I’ll…not scream. I’m pretty sure I can do that.”

“It’s Paolo’s doing,” Gianluigi said, calming down enough to look supremely irritated. He fiddled with the spear behind his back, and then, when Alberto kept looking at it, reluctantly pulled it out and held it like he wanted to stuff it in the nearest space with a door on it. “He’s still speaking to that priest, who asked him a question, so he wanted to see it so he could answer it. Apparently Sandro’s sword is insufficiently long for his purposes.”

“Oh, you’ve heard from Father Thuram?” Alberto asked, brightening up. He knew Gianluigi didn’t like the man much, but he hadn’t minded him or Kaká. Well, Kaká was a little…intense…but Thuram had always been very kind. He’d never seemed to get impatient with the fact that Alberto knew so little about all the magic and demon hierarchy and the rest that everybody else pretty much took for granted. “Are they still in France, or did they go to Spain y—Jesus, that’s cold. Oh, sh—oh. I mean, I’m…oops. Sorry. I…well…”

Gianluigi actually didn’t seem to care that Alberto sort of blasphemed a lot, but since he yelled at other people for it Alberto always felt guilty anyway. And also, a little stupid for forgetting that they were standing in front of an open door to the outside.

But like usual, Gianluigi just looked at him as if Alberto had done something marvelous. He lifted his hand and just touched Alberto on the cheek, then reached out for the door handle. Then he stopped, frowning.

“Oh, right.” Yet another thing Alberto had forgotten. “I…think there might be something out there.”

Gianluigi nodded and lifted his spear, and from somewhere out in the alley came a pitiful little noise. It was thready and high-pitched, and it made Alberto feel as if he was the one out there, hungry and tired and alone and just wanting somebody to please see him, please help him, he wasn’t that—

Alberto snapped out of it just in time to grab Gianluigi’s elbow and keep him from tossing the spear. “You can’t kill them here!” he hissed. “The health inspection’s in three days! I don’t think we can exorcise things that fast! Do you—do you have to?”

The spear stayed up for a moment longer. Then Gianluigi sighed and put it down, and looked at Alberto. He didn’t quite understand, but also, if Alberto wasn’t just imagining things, he kind of looked let-down as well. “It’s very small,” he said grudgingly. “But they grow.”

“I—well, I know Paolo and Sandro probably don’t want them here either, but can’t we just ask them to go somewhere else?” Alberto hesitantly leaned out of the door again, squinting to see in the dark alley. Behind him he heard Gianluigi suck in a breath and he put one hand back for the angel to hold. “Hey? Hey, listen, if you don’t try to hurt me, can we…maybe we can just talk for a second? Where are you?”

That little sad noise came a second time, even weaker than before. From the sound of it, they were off to the left and Alberto leaned that way. He ducked his head so that more light would come out of the hall over his back and then thought he saw movement. But then it disappeared. He got down lower, then glanced back—Gianluigi was gritting his teeth, but the spear wasn’t in sight—before tentatively stretching out his hand.

“It’s okay,” Alberto said. “Just talk right now. If you don’t hurt me, Gianluigi won’t hurt you. Okay?”

The thing moved again. It _was_ really small, even smaller than the foxes. Little and dark and as it finally wobbled out of the dark, Alberto couldn’t help a gasp.

* * *

“No!” Hierro was snapping as Luís walked in. The demon was drawn up to his full height—seriously endangering the undead-detection mobiles hanging above him—and glowering at somebody behind a giant wreath. “No. This is beyond shameful. This is—”

“I just don’t understand,” Guardiola said from beside Hierro. He was clearly uneasy about something, with his ears constantly swiveling, and when he saw Luís he started. Then he cleared his throat and looked back at the wreath. “What is _this_?”

“It’s how things are done up here.” Raúl had appeared by the wreath and already had his shoulders hunched back and his jaw set. He put one of his arms across the wreath and Hierro flinched. They might as well both have done that, given the pained expression that went across Raúl’s face, but then Raúl composed himself back into resolute irritation. “With much respect, Fernando—”

Hierro snorted. “As much as you’re showing all the time we spent thinking we’d saved everything we held dear.”

The whole room went silent. It was…it was honestly unnerving, not hearing at least the little scrapes and rustles and occasional snippy yip of foxes sliding around in the shadows. Raúl had paled but he hadn’t so much as blinked in meeting Hierro’s stare, while Guardiola was looking between the two of them as if he wasn’t quite sure who he wanted to slap.

“I was wondering where that had gone,” Luís finally said. He noted how Hierro and Raúl both failed to acknowledge him, and how Guardiola almost turned a glower on him before opting to fidget and sigh instead, and went over to take the wreath away from the tense tableau.

Conveniently, he took the fox-demon holding it up as well, and as soon as he and Cesc were back in the bookshop, he stuck the wreath on some holiday-themed anthologies and stabbed a finger at demon. “It’s not my fault!” Cesc yelped.

Luís rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. Where the hell are Mori and Villa? Why aren’t they backing up Raúl in there?”

“They went to get the tree.” Cesc shot the door a worried look, then flipped to grumpy as soon as he turned back to Luís. He scrubbed at his hair with one hand, chewing at his lip. “You know. Because you said this year you wanted to try casting some stupid solstice thing so we couldn’t just get any tree, we had to get a _yew_ tree, and—”

“Fine, they’re unavailable,” Luís muttered, jamming the mail he’d just picked up into a cubbyhole. “Then at least tell me what I’m running interference on.”

Oddly enough, that made Cesc look even less thrilled. “It’s fine,” he said tightly. “Look, Silva went to get Villa and Mori back, and anyway, it’s not that big a deal. You don’t need to get involved.”

“Really.” Just as Luís finished, the door blew open and a tangle of tinsel and a pissed-off Iker came rolling out of it. “And they’re not about to get into some dominance battle. In _my house._ ”

Raúl had come out right after Iker, backing out through the door while snarling at whoever was coming after—Hierro. Who didn’t even check at seeing Iker scramble to his feet by Raúl, but who did look a bit shocked when Luís’ spell bowled him over into a convenient chair. A bit unfair, considering Luís had taken the care to put him in upright, and Luís just about tripped the other ward in time to knock Guardiola, who had picked the wrong time to decide who he was defending, back into the other room.

“My house,” Luís said after a moment. “My decorations. My desire for a little peace during this time of year where we humans attempt to be genuinely serious about love for our fellows.”

Hierro opened his mouth, then shut it and stared at Luís. Then he carefully moved his right leg and put his hands down on the chair arms, arranging himself to stand up again.

“ _Do not_ ,” Raúl said, demanding and desperate all at once.

“Oh…man,” Cesc breathed. Still by Luís, apparently.

The doorbell rang. Luís thought about ignoring it, but then realized who it was and rubbed one hand over his face, wondering whether it was too late for him to take up Zinedine’s offer to spend Christmas in the desert.

By the time he’d removed his hand, the bookshop was spic-and-span and there wasn’t a furry ear or tail to be seen anywhere. Iker was behind the cash register, covertly picking tinsel off his human-looking ear while eyeing Hierro, who was helping Guardiola to his feet while keeping one eye on Raúl, who was doing an awful job of pretending he was going to shelve crime thrillers. About as good as it would get, Luís decided, and then answered the door.

“Hi,” Alberto said uncertainly. He had something bundled into his arms. “I, well, I’m sorry I didn’t call. I just realized, so—if it’s a bad time…”

“I still have my spear and he has no health inspection concerns,” Gianluigi said under his breath, shouldering his way in and past Luís. He stopped about a meter inside, giving all the fox-demons condescending looks except for Hierro and Guardiola. Them, he watched as if he thought that they might open a portal to Hell at any moment. “We are leaving shortly.”

Hierro met Gianluigi’s gaze, then looked away. He flicked a mote of dust off his leg. Guardiola glanced in Raúl’s direction before putting his hand up on the jamb—blocking the door, Luís thought. “Honestly, it is, but you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important, Gila. So what it is? Zlatan accidentally step on Sandro’s foot?”

“Hey, that’s not half-bad,” Cesc said. When they looked at him, he took a moment to look up from whatever was in Alberto’s arms. His shoulders pulled in a bit. “What?”

“Miaow.” The bundle in Alberto’s arms poked out a small black head. “Mau?”

Luís looked at it, then nodded. “That is quite good.”

“So…he was behind the restaurant,” Alberto said. He hefted the kitten, then seemed to recall something and bent over to put it down on the ground. Gianluigi and Hierro exchanged silent promises of a future reckoning over his head, and then he stood back up and gave Luís an apologetic look. “He says he’s only been up a few days, and since he was sort of confused by the oven burners I kind of believe him. I really don’t—I mean there’s just not space in my place—”

The faintest hint of exasperation crossed Gianluigi’s face, followed very closely by a guilty glance at Alberto and then a redoubled glower at Hierro.

“—and I don’t really think Zlatan would, you know, be fine with hosting him.” Alberto made a nervous movement with his shoulders. “I wasn’t really sure who else to ask.”

“That is so cool!” Now Cesc was on his hands and knees in front of the kitten, grinning at its tiny button-nosed face. “I’ve never seen a guilt-trip that focused before. Hey, do it again and I’ll show you where the best pigeon spots are.”

“No,” Hierro said. He looked at Alberto and nearly took a step forward, only to go stiff when Gianluigi flexed one hand. Then he breathed in deeply and slowly. “No. We do not—”

Raúl slapped down the book in his hand. “It’s not _your call_.” He paused, then continued in a steadier, more merciless tone. “Not now. It’s…we’re here because he _lets_ us live here.”

“Anyway, I have to get back to the restaurant,” Alberto added, his rounded eyes flicking between the two fox-demons and Gianluigi. “So can you take care of him? If you can’t, I…um, well, he can’t really go to a shelter, but—”

“I don’t understand this,” Gianluigi proclaimed, apparently to no one in particular. He gave Hierro a last hard stare, then slowly swept his gaze around to take in Luís. “But Alberto is concerned, and I would appreciate it if you would alleviate that concern.”

“Because that’s what I do. Alleviate concerns, and take in random stray demons.” Luís looked down at the kitten, which had planted itself by his left foot and was grooming one paw. He pressed two fingers to his temple, asked himself if he really had to, and then asked himself when he was going to stop wasting his time asking that sort of question. “Don’t worry about it, Gila. I’ll…do something. And Gianluigi, I wouldn’t mind if you’d just alleviate my concern that there’s a new—”

Gianluigi was already back outside, and was taking Alberto with him. “I have already seen to the matter. I would never allow a rift to endanger Alberto, much less persist near his _place of work_.”

“Thanks! Thanks so much!” Alberto was calling back. “So sorry I had to bother you, but it’s really nice of you to help, and just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Right. Anything you can help with.” Luís shut the door and then turned around. He blinked, then raised his brows. “Please tell me this means you’re smart enough to understand that I’m a mage, I know what you are, and I’m already short of patience.”

The demon in front of him was quite short, about Silva’s size, with black hair, a bright smile and persistent cat’s-eye pupils. “Name’s Kun, Sergio, whichever one you like,” he said. “I’m starving, so feed me? Then hey, whatever, I’ve never been a familiar before but it’s always seemed like a pretty nice job so I could get down with it.”

Cesc stifled a noise into his hand that had probably started out as a laugh but was trying very hard to end in an appropriately awkward manner. “Um. Okay, look, that’s not really how it works around here…”

Hierro’s growl made them all shut up; Luís absently noted that Kun had instantly scrunched down, back arched and hands on knees. For another moment Hierro stared at them, and then he abruptly turned and went into the back of the shop. Guardiola sucked in his breath and rocked back on the balls of his feet. He looked at Raúl, who merely looked back. Then he pivoted and chased after Hierro.

Raúl let out his breath slowly, his eyes nearly closing. He put one hand up to his face, then jerked it down. Then he backed up against one of the bookcases and pressed his head against the side of it.

“Soooo…food?” Kun said, sidling up to Luís. He paired a winning smile with very large, very cute, very pleading eyes. “I’m so _hungry_.”

“Hey.” Villa banged inside, craning his head suspiciously around as if he thought they’d all just broken into his place. “What the fuck’s going on? I just passed Gianluigi on the street, and Hierro and Guardiola are bitching at each other behind the store, and who the hell are you?”

Kun blinked once, and then a small black kitten was huddled up against Luís’ foot, directing its terrified stare up at a highly disgusted Villa, who rolled his eyes and muttered something about amateurs.

“All right, all right.” Luís scooped up Kun, then held the little opportunist out at arm’s length when Kun began purring and rubbing his head against Luís’ hand. “All _right_. Cesc, feed Kun and explain the house rules to him. Villa, shut the damn door before you let all the heat out. And _somebody_ explain to me what Hierro’s problem is.”

“Like we don’t redo your insulation for free with our sheddings,” Cesc snorted, taking Kun from Luís. He noticed Luís looking a bit harder at him and immediately rearranged his face into slightly over-eager. “So yeah, I’ll take care of Kun so I better get right on that, can’t let him starve or whatever and bye!”

He scooted himself and Kun towards the stairs, while the rest of the foxes kept avoiding Luís’ eyes. Even Raúl, who had at least pried himself off the bookcase, was looking as if he really thought he might be able to talk his way out of this one with something about adjustment periods and internal dynamics and demon traditions. And then the door banged shut behind Luís.

“Hierro’s being a fucking asshole because he doesn’t want a tree or any presents or any of the good shit,” Villa said, digging snow out of his tail. “Can’t be celebrating anything _holy_ , because we’re demons and that means Christmas is off-limits.”

“Oh,” Luís said after a moment. “Really? That’s all?”

* * *

The kits were all mysteriously lacking underfoot, and that alone would’ve told Luís all he needed to know even if he hadn’t walked in on the argument. But for some reason, Raúl still seemed to think he had plausible deniability. “It’s really just an issue between us,” he was telling Luís as they moved into the kitchen. “Of course we all understand that this is your place and you can celebrate whatever you’d like. We’re not going to make you take down your decorations.”

“No, we’re just going to shun them and act like looking at a box of Christmas tree ornaments will peel off our skin. For fuck’s sake, would you stop pretending it’s okay? Because it’s not.” Villa, his prickly attitude for once working in Luís’ favor, banged shut the fridge. Bottle of milk in hand, he looked around before finally settling on the collection of holiday mugs Luís had stumbled over while cleaning out the pantry and had set aside for donation. “They’re so busy trying to pull rank that they haven’t fucking noticed—”

“David, shut your damn mouth before I shut it for you,” Raúl snarled. He was visibly furious, without any of his usual restraint, and it was something to see. For a moment he looked as if he meant to stop Villa from talking by ripping off his jaw.

And Villa looked as if he believed Raúl would do it. He took an involuntary step back, then shook himself, looking frustrated with the both of them. “I’m just saying. They aren’t listening. They aren’t even pretending that they ever would have.”

“Well, I already know.” A flicker of regret passed over Raúl’s face, but he knew what he was doing when he turned his back on the other demon and sat down at the kitchen table.

Villa stared at Raúl for several seconds. Once he even began to answer, but then he stopped himself with a twist of the head that was as much dejected as angry. In the end he just took himself back into the hall, mumbling about the pointlessness of helping the idiotic.

“I thought I heard you discussing the regional party,” Luís eventually opened with.

Raúl inhaled slowly and looked as if he wanted to be rude, but since he was thinking about it first, he obviously was never going to do it. He paused, then pulled his elbows up on the table and pressed his hands over his face. “Yes, because we’ve gone for the past couple years, but this year it didn’t seem wise. Fernando and Pep aren’t…weren’t on friendly terms with some of the regulars before, and we’ve no idea how things have changed.”

It would have been nice if they’d mentioned that before Luís had disabled his kitchen for a day brewing up liters of hangover cure. But Luís saved that for another argument and just pulled out a chair for himself.

“It’s not the same,” Raúl added after a moment. His fingers were digging so deeply into the skin about his eyes that their nails were leaving red crescent marks. “That party’s about celebrating everything that’s not holy.”

“Because of course, the best way to fight something is to do everything possible to show that it’s always on your mind, right down to using the opposite colors on the color wheel.” Luís glanced down the table, noticed a new scratch and made a note to himself to make the next fox-demon he caught sneaking his Madeira to buff it. “You did tell them I’m not kidnapping any kits to take to midnight Mass with me, didn’t you?”

Raúl pulled his hands down and looked tiredly at Luís. Then he sighed and nodded. He was…he _was_ taking it as a serious question. Damn it.

“I just don’t remember this coming up before,” Luís finally said, pulling his chair by the demon. He put his hand on Raúl’s shoulder, then slid his arm across Raúl’s shoulders when the fox-demon relaxed under the touch. “The first time you were…all a bit confused, but once you realized stockings were better used as gift-holders rather than clothing, you didn’t object.”

“Well, it would’ve been a little cruel to take away the kits’ toy mice at that point. And you’d actually gone through the trouble to bespell them to move.” The edges of Raúl’s mouth threatened to pull into a smile, but then he closed his eyes and put his head on Luís’ shoulder. He rubbed at his temple again. “To be honest, it was—I wasn’t just confused. All of us older…but we had just run away from the fighting down below. We didn’t really want to think about it, and wrapping presents and eating candy obviously wasn’t going to turn us into angels. I think we just wanted to—we all just didn’t want you to throw us out.”

Luís pursed his lips a few times. He glanced at Raúl, but the fox-demon had turned his head so that all Luís could see was the top of it and the edge of one half-folded ear. Then he discarded what he’d been about to say and just rubbed the side of Raúl’s arm.

“It’s not like we thought we had to do it or else,” Raúl said, shifting against Luís. “I didn’t mean it like that. But it was—it was a good sign, we thought. That you were asking us to help out.”

“Well, at this point you should know me well enough to know it was also about taking advantage of you to run up the Christmas lights on the roof,” Luís told him. He snorted when Raúl elbowed his ribs, then kissed Raúl’s temple. “You can help this year if you want, and I’d appreciate it for more than just sparing me the trouble of climbing up a ladder, but that’s not why you’re still here.”

Raúl nodded quietly. His hand brushed Luís’ hip, then flattened over Luís’ thigh for balance as he twisted around. He kissed Luís on the mouth, not trying to ask anything but just reaffirming a few things, and then tucked his head into Luís’ other shoulder as he hugged Luís.

“Just let me try to talk to them one more time,” he said when he pulled back. “It’s…it’s not about leaving you out, but it’s hard even for me.”

That was clearly true, but it was on the tip of Luís’ tongue to remind Raúl that personal difficulty wasn’t going to cut it if somebody got his house sucked down to Hell. Also, even though Luís didn’t know exactly what was going on, he did have enough to have a good idea and he had spent years dealing with Zlatan’s demon identity issues. So not only was he apparently running a wayward demon home these days, but he was also a damn therapist—and a decent one, if Zlatan’s recent failure to trigger apocalyptic events was any indication.

Instead Luís sighed and told Raúl he’d give it another day. But the tree _was_ going up, and his grandmother’s antique glass ornaments were going on it, and he was about to warn Raúl of all the dire things that would happen should one of them get broken when Raúl kissed him again, with just as much affection but much more enthusiasm. Taking advantage of an opportunity like that was an age-old Christmas tradition as far as Luís was concerned, and one he didn’t mind perpetuating.

* * *

“I figured,” Fernando said, kicking some snow out of the way. A chilly breeze whipped across them and he shivered, then tucked the end of his scarf more tightly into his coat. He didn’t miss the way Hierro glanced at that and…and damn it, he did still respect the demon, but Hierro was making it hard to remember why. “Somebody did tell you that Figo puts lights up here, right? Once he gets to that, I guess you’ll have to find somewhere else.”

From where he was huddled up against the side of the roof, Guardiola stopped squirming his hands against his calves long enough to turn startled, wary eyes up at Fernando. He had—well, obviously no one was going to come out of an imprisonment term in Hell exactly the same as they’d gone in. But it was one thing to think that and look at Sandro, who’d been a pain in the ass back when he’d been a full angel but who now could barely work up the effort to notice any demons existed besides Zlatan. It was another to look at someone Fernando had once followed—had once basically worshipped.

Because that’d been how things had been done. Fernando wasn’t that old for a demon, but sometimes he wondered if picking up a few more centuries in between would have been enough time for him to get used to it all.

“Oh. You mean electric lights,” Guardiola finally said. “I remember they used to do it with candles.”

Fernando stood there and nodded and wished for a moment that he’d just gone and gotten Raúl. But that, he reminded himself, was unfair. It’d been hard on Raúl for weeks now and he’d been too stubborn to ask for help, and he was going to be too stubborn right up till it made him spontaneously combust. And Fernando was damned if he was going to let that happen, and damned if he was going to let some prickly little bastard say he just hung around the foxes for scraps.

“If you’re here to defend the human, it’s not necessary,” Hierro said slowly. He stretched out his legs, then put his hands down on the roof and worked the kinks out of his arms. “I am aware that we owe him a debt and that we do not yet have our own territory, and—”

“Look, that’s the thing. We _do_. It’s just we pretty much share it with Figo.” After a moment, Fernando winced and shook his head. “Well, they’re his wards and he says all the time that it’s his place, yes, but he took Raúl around when he was checking out—when he was scouting new places, and listened to what Raúl had to say. And we’re happy. It’s a good arrangement. It’s been good to us.”

Hierro was looking up at Fernando, so apparently he was listening. But it wasn’t showing in his face.

Before Fernando could give it a second try, Guardiola put out his hand. Then he got to his feet, grimacing as his joints popped. His skin was looking a little grayish. “Mori. He under—we see that. We honestly do. It’s different here. We see that. You had to adapt. But it’s not…it’s not always going to be a mere matter of survival. Eventually—eventually you have to—”

“You don’t have to sit on the damn roof and freeze,” Fernando blurted out. He hesitated, then decided it really didn’t matter how much more of a soft hypocrite Hierro thought he was now. “Look, fine, they’re made by humans. But would you just explain to me how wearing their damn clothes is going to infect us with Heaven?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Guardiola snapped. “It wouldn’t. It doesn’t. We’re—”

“You’re not naked but Raúl got us taken care of up here and then remembered to go back for you, with the help of humans by the way, and now that you’re here all you do is tell him how much you’re suffering because he won’t listen to you anymore,” Fernando snapped back. He looked Guardiola up and down, then shoved the spare scarves he’d brought at the other demon. “You know what’s a lot like the other side? Wearing Figo’s shirt like it’s torture and being a total martyr about it.”

Hierro was immediately on his feet and shoving the scarves away to get in Fernando’s face. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay.” Fernando nearly took a step back because damn it, but Hierro was frightening when he was glowering like that, his shoulders back and his teeth showing. But he was a wolf-demon, and he had faced down hell-hounds, and honestly, he’d practically been neighbors with Zlatan for nearly two years now. “Okay. Look. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t throw around that word like that. But you two are being assholes, and I do know about that. We _missed_ you, you know. But in the meantime Raúl did a damn good job of taking care of things, and that’s all I’m trying to say. I just think maybe you should look at what he did before you start changing things.”

“We’re not saying he didn’t,” Guardiola said, pulling at Hierro’s arm. At first Hierro resisted, but then Guardiola snapped his teeth at him and Hierro was startled enough to let Guardiola shove him out of the way. That was new—before Guardiola didn’t let their disagreements become public. “But this is about celebrating the triumph of our foes. It just—it’s not right.”

“It’s not about that. Nobody’s going to church except Figo, and if you honestly think Figo’s some simpleminded—well, why would you even let him get near you? And you damn well do,” Fernando pointed out. He nodded at Guardiola’s neck, then let out a harsh chuckle. “You know, if you wore a scarf, it wouldn’t be so easy to point that out.”

Guardiola might have been blushing, but the cold air had already reddened his cheeks so it was impossible to be sure. What did show through his shivering was how he went stiff and straight, his eyes glittering even more ominously than Hierro’s.

Hierro actually reached for him, but he irritably elbowed off the other demon. Then he jerked one scarf from Fernando’s hand. He draped it over his neck while going a few steps off to the side, every movement deliberately awkward so Fernando knew it was just because Guardiola was humoring him. Sometimes Fernando would honestly take the knock-down drag-out head-eating fight with Hierro.

“Fernando,” Pep said, once Fernando had joined him. “I know you mean well. And I understand you might have a different view. But—”

“If you’re going to be like that, you should just say I’m a damned wolf who’s running with the wrong pack and to butt out,” Fernando snapped. Then he had to stop, because—because Guardiola was going _there_ and he needed a moment to just breathe. To remember that he had very good reasons not to rip out Guardiola’s throat, even if they were all seeming a bit lame right now. “ _Look_ , just look—you’re not in Hell! You’re not! That was the whole point of saving you! And things aren’t like they were there, and if you can’t take that, maybe you should go back there! I’m starting to think you were fucking _happier_ in Hell anyway, since nobody asked you—”

He didn’t think he’d reached for Guardiola. But there was a dark blur up to Guardiola’s right side, and Fernando was worked up anyway. He hit out without thinking, and then they all stared at Hierro sprawled down on the ground.

Once Fernando wouldn’t even have gotten near to touching the other demon. He would’ve…Fernando shook his head, then shook it again. He started to move away but something shifted under his arm and he remembered the other scarf he’d brought up. He balled that up into his hand and Guardiola moved a little. Guardiola could’ve been doing anything, really—trying to block Fernando from getting at Hierro again, trying to give Hierro a hand up, maybe even trying to get Fernando to stay. It didn’t matter.

Fernando threw the scarf at Hierro, then turned while it was still drifting over the demon’s legs. “I didn’t have to stay,” he said, walking off. “Even for Raúl. I could’ve just dragged him out, or…look, I helped him for him, but he didn’t ask me to help with the rest. _You_ did, and I did that for you. You fucking shits.”

He heard them moving around behind him, but that was behind him. No reason for him to look back, and—and if Raúl had been putting up with that with just a frayed temper, Fernando once again had to marvel at the fox-demon’s patience.

“Hey,” Villa said, and Fernando realized he’d gone inside. Villa pushed the roof-top door shut but left his hand on the knob, looking curiously at Fernando. “Hey.”

Fernando stopped and sighed. “What.”

The other demon pursed his lips and scuffed one foot, glancing over his shoulder. He tugged at his forelock, then blew out his breath and Fernando belatedly understood that Villa was nervous.

He gave Villa a few more seconds, but when Villa still didn’t say anything, Fernando twisted so he could go past him. His foot was almost on the next step when something brushed up against it and he had to grab for the rail to keep his balance. “What—”

“Oh…hi?” Kun materialized on the step below, looking as quizzical as someone who didn’t know why Fernando was wrapped around the rail. “Um, not the kitchen?”

“Where—there you are!” Silva and Mata peeled themselves out of the shadow the door threw on the wall, landing on either side of Kun. Mata had a dusting of confectionary sugar on him and Silva smelled distinctly of cinnamon. “No, other way,” Mata said, slinging his arm around Kun’s shoulders. “C’mon, we just baked a fresh batch.”

He shepherded Kun down the stairs, but Silva lingered to look inquisitively at Villa and Fernando. “So…are things still…” Silva gestured expressively, then drooped from ears to tail when Villa nodded “…damn it, why is this so hard? I mean, Kun just came up too, but you should’ve seen him with the hot cross buns. He ate them like…like you look like you want to eat him, Mori, but that’d be kinda rude.”

“I don’t want to eat him,” Fernando muttered. “I leave that to Zlatan. Maybe really step on him next time…I’m kidding, Silva. And you’d better go down. They’re in the kind of mood that they’d probably smack you just for smelling like spice.”

“They try it and I’ll fucking—” Villa started.

“Fucking what?” Fernando finally let go of the rail and looked down at the other demon. “What, David? They lasted how long in Hell? What are you going to do to them that’s worse than that?”

Villa blinked hard. He opened his mouth, but shut it again before Silva had even grabbed him, and while Silva was giving him a warning shake, he was staring thoughtfully at Fernando. “I’m going to not give a fuck what they think,” he eventually said. His tone was less combative than his words. “Here’s the thing. I know why I’m okay with baking stupid-looking cookies and getting tape and ribbons and shit all tangled up with my tail, and I think if they’re not also okay with it, that’s their problem.”

“Well, maybe you should try telling them that,” Fernando said after a long moment.

He started down the steps again, but Villa snagged his scarf so he had to look back. “Hey,” Villa said again. “Hey…if I thought it’d do any good…but it looked like you tried, and they were pretty rough on you. And they’ve been giving Raúl shit this whole month. I can’t believe Figo didn’t notice till now.”

“He probably has, but he didn’t want to say if he didn’t have to. He knows Raúl hates it when outsiders get involved.” That came out too bitter, Fernando thought. It wasn’t Raúl who was stonewalling Fernando these days, and even at his worst, Villa had never ever come up with that either. “I’ll be fine. Hierro let me get here without ripping off my head, so…”

“Still, you know you can always hang with us, right?” Silva said earnestly. “Whatever mood they’re in.”

After a moment, Fernando risked the smile and was pleasantly surprised when it didn’t feel forced. He bent over and kissed the top of Silva’s head, and then gave Villa’s hair a good ruffle when Villa looked like he was biting back a comment. Then he went downstairs to find Raúl and report on his failed attempt.

* * *

Luís wasn’t particularly comfortable with the idea of leaving the intra-fox dispute brewing by itself—not to mention Kun, who was going to run out of sweets to taste sooner or later—but he had some errands he couldn’t put off. So he adjusted some of the wards, sent a message off to Zinedine so he wouldn’t be surprised if he made an unplanned visit, and called up Zlatan and guilted the demon into coming over to watch out for trouble, like giant stork-legged foxes brawling in the streets. It wasn’t like Zlatan had anything else to occupy his time anyway; Luís knew the restaurant had been booked for a private holiday party and would be busy with that, and Sandro was probably looking for reasons to get Zlatan out from underfoot anyway.

Or that had been the idea, anyway. “Look, you said come over and make sure they didn’t set the place on fire,” Zlatan said, eyes bulging as much affronted innocence as was possible while still remaining in his skull. He waved one hand in the direction of the kitchen. “That’s what I did!”

“Yeah, let’s just blow up a quadrupled recipe of gingerbread dough instead,” Cesc muttered. Then he gasped and lunged for something on the floor. “Kun! Don’t eat that!”

Kun shifted to human size before Cesc grabbed him, but still skittered out of reach. “Why not?”

Cesc paused and considered the splotch of dough on the floor. “Because it might’ve touched him—” nod towards Zlatan “—and who knows what he’s been doing lately. He eats _rat-demons_.”

“Hey, you fuzzy snob, like you’ve never—”

“What, you’re not supposed to?” Kun had wandered back to poke at the dough with a finger. “That’s pretty much all I eat.”

“Oh. Um, well, nothing wrong with that when you don’t know better, but there are _so_ many better things up here to eat,” Cesc quickly extemporized. He took Kun by the elbow and slowly began to haul him out of the dough-covered kitchen. “C’mon, you haven’t even tried the punch.”

Zlatan took a step after the fleeing pair, then dropped back against the counter with a disgusted snort that quickly rose into a hiss when he realized he’d just put his hand in a glob of dough. He jerked himself away, wrinkling his nose at his sticky fingers. “Figo, if you wanted a cat, couldn’t you just get one off the streets? I know I heard one messing around the trash the other day.”

“As I understand it, that’s exactly where Kun came from,” Luís remarked dryly. He rubbed at his nose, considered the damage again, and then decided that if the foxes still could gum up his kitchen, they couldn’t have time to fight with each other. Not that he wasn’t going to shove a pack of them in later with scrubbing sponges and a hex to keep them inside till the place was clean. “Any other disasters I should know about?”

“Aside from those two stuffed assholes upstairs?” Zlatan said. He still looked irritated at having to peel dough off his hand, but his usual smug air was returning. “Villa was so pissed off at them that he didn’t even notice me, so I had to have a look in.”

Luís paused in the middle of picking his way over to the fridge.

“Oh, give me a little credit. I’m not going to pick a fight where you live.” Zlatan turned around and used his clean hand to knock open the sink tap, then looked back at Luís. “That’s just stupid.”

“Because then where would you go when the angels have kicked you out, now that you’ve sold off your place,” Luís muttered.

“Hey! Heard that!” Once Zlatan realized that Luís didn’t care, he grudgingly returned to washing off his hand. “And for your information, we’re getting along great. Sandro’s even shut up a bit ever since he found out I’m getting him a new set of carving knives.”

The fridge was nearly full, what with all the holiday supplies, but come to think of it, Luís was hungry. He took out one of the cakes and shoved in the things he’d bought, and then shut the fridge door with his hip. “Because he’s too busy eyeing you and making comments about how nicely you’d cut up?”

Zlatan blinked, then made an annoyed face at him, like it was Luís’ fault that one, Sandro’s insults towards Zlatan were regrettably predictable or two, that Luís had had the occasion to memorize them all. “Like he would ever give up this.”

“Do. Not. Need. To know.” Luís shielded his face from the acrobatics Zlatan’s tongue was performing in the air and went to the opposite cabinet for a plate and a fork. “Are they still on the roof?”

“I said they were stuffed, didn’t I?” When Luís looked blank, Zlatan briefly looked downcast before immediately compensating with a completely unnecessary eye-roll. “Like, a stuffed animal? Like they were…okay, not like when we brought them back, so don’t flip out at me. But you’d better talk them down soon or you’re going to have some funny ice sculptures to go with your lights. What’s their problem anyway?”

The cake was courtesy of Zinedine. At the time Luís had thanked the hawk-demon politely and then dragged him off to the bedroom for a more proper farewell, but now, eating it, Luís had to say he was pleasantly surprised. Zinedine knew his pastries for someone who had to be frequently reminded that he needed to gut his dinner in the utility bathroom. Either that, or he’d been talking to Henrik again. “You celebrate Christmas.”

“…yeah? And?” Zlatan narrowed his eyes, like he always did when he didn’t know where Luís was going and had given Luís enough shit lately to be worried about that.

“And you’re a demon. It’s technically—despite all humanity’s attempts to turn it into a paean to commercialism—still the holiest of holy days for Christians,” Luís said, forking up more cake.

“If you want to get picky about it, shouldn’t we be talking about Easter too? I mean, yeah, the beginning’s always more cheerful than the end, but importance isn’t just about what’s happy.” Then Zlatan grinned broadly enough to show his fangs. “I have depth.”

Luís snorted into his cake. “So does a black hole.”

“Jerk.” Zlatan turned off the tap and began flapping his hand dry. “Okay, yeah, so I celebrate Christmas, and also I go to the demons’ party, but those assholes stopped ragging me about it about when I took out Asmodeus. I’m not celebrating God either way, and I’m not celebrating Lucifer, wherever the fuck that bastard is these days. I don’t think that’s why Sandro and Paolo do it either.”

“What?” Luís said, looking up sharply.

Instead of answering him, Zlatan raised a foot, then put it down and looked around. He sighed and muttered something under his breath, and all the dough suddenly turned into white ash. Which swirled all over the damn place before getting stuck to the grease spots Zlatan hadn’t also gotten, but at least Zlatan hadn’t burned the wood this time. Though the demon somehow still seemed to think that that had earned him some cake.

“Look, they’re angels,” Zlatan mumbled around the fingerful he’d just taken out of the cake. He sucked thoughtfully at his finger, then nodded in approval. Then had the temerity to look offended when Luís shoved a fork at him. “Man, you’re getting uptight these days. Anyway…that’s what they are. Even without wings and a direct connection and all that shit. They’re still angels, and they still—feel whatever they feel towards God every day, without needing some dumb holiday. But they’re here now, and there’s the restaurant and you can’t be too weird or the humans notice, blah blah, so you do the human holidays.”

“But why even bother, in that case?” Luís asked. “You can adapt to us without copying us.”

Zlatan rolled his eyes again, but he did use the fork. “We’re not copying anyway. I’m just saying, the timing is convenient. Like, if I really, _really_ wanted to, I could fuck Sandro and Paolo all the time, but I don’t—and I do fucking try, whatever Sandro says, and he can shut up when I _know_ he sourced that shampoo after they stopped importing it—ow!”

Luís removed his fork from the back of Zlatan’s hand, wiped it off on a paper towel, and resumed eating his end of the cake.

“It’s just a good time, that’s all,” Zlatan finally said, still giving Luís a dirty look. “Look, I like it. I like having a couple days when I can just hang out and Paolo’s not busy being nice to people and Sandro’s not fretting so much he forgets he used to be kind of a badass, and…and it’s just nice. Being around. We never got holidays in Hell. And the party up here, I don’t know, that gets old. I think I just go these days so all the assholes remember I’ll kick their asses if they mess with me or the angels. So I just like it. Why? I can’t give Sandro and Paolo a fucking present once in a while?”

“No, you can give them all the presents you want,” Luís replied after a long pause. “Whatever you want to do. That’s the thing—nobody tells you what to do now.”

“Exactly.” Zlatan beamed, and while Luís would never be so stupid to tell him so, he did almost verge on the angelic when he smiled like that. He just didn’t hide anything then, and everything that showed was blissful. Of course, it only lasted for a moment. “Besides, it’s not like there’s any other good time. Angels don’t come with birthdays.”

Luís had been about to excuse himself, but he couldn’t help it. “Do you?”

“Me?” Zlatan blinked a few times. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, there was definitely a day that I cracked my shell, because they’d invented day and night by then, but…time is different in Hell, and there’s all this…look, go ask Henke if it really matters. He’d know. I just tell everybody it’s Christmas so I get extra presents.” He grinned again at Luís. “Hey, it’s not like I have a _problem_ with the materialistic side of it. It’s just not all of why I do it, but I’ll take it too.”

“You would,” Luís sighed. He paused, then handed over the rest of the cake. Smug bastard that he was, Zlatan had earned it.

* * *

“Raúl?” Fernando rapped on the jamb, then eased his way into the room. He paused to let the kits swarm out, then gazed after them. “I don’t have my scary face on, do I?”

The other demon tried to smile as he shook his head, but his ears and tail gave him away, so exhausted that they barely twitched. He moved over to make room for Fernando, then sighed and let his head fall back against the wall. One of his feet slid out, pushing aside the coils of ribbons and sparkly twine. He eventually got up his hand as Fernando sat down by him, rubbing at his nose and then letting it flop limply against Fernando’s knee. Fernando opened his mouth, then just muttered something about Villa behaving himself and let Raúl nuzzle his head onto Fernando’s shoulder. Raúl would bring it up when he wanted to.

“They’re going to freeze up there,” Raúl finally said. He shifted his knees and arms as if he was going to get up, but didn’t struggle when Fernando planted one arm down on his shoulders. “I should—”

“You have been for a while now and it hasn’t done anything.” Fernando chewed at his lip, then exhaled irritably and looked up at the ceiling. “I hit Hierro.” He felt Raúl’s shoulders jump and grimaced. “Not that hard, all right? I wasn’t really—he walked into it anyway. And I don’t know, I don’t feel that guilty about it. I just feel like he deserved it, and yes, I’ve been spending too much time with David lately.”

To his surprise, Raúl laughed quietly. Then the other demon turned and put his hand to Fernando’s cheek. “David’s all right,” he said, laying his face against Fernando’s.

Fernando snorted half-heartedly, then pushed his nose into Raúl’s curls and closed his eyes. Now that he was on that train of thought…it really was amazing that either of them had ever even entertained the possibility of Villa splitting them up, let alone working themselves up as much as they had. They’d had so much else happen by then and it’d never been a question.

And it never had really been a question: Raúl had been worried that Fernando was sick of his moody, too-serious, always on the leadership-clock ways, but Fernando had just liked having someone to talk to who also thought the tribe leader thing was a little overhyped. He’d never thought about throwing Raúl over for Villa. But he had—he had thought Raúl might get fed up with him, for never managing to concentrate enough to be the sober, steady partner a good leader needed.

Of course, that’d been stupid and shortsighted. Raúl was smart enough to know what worked for him, and determined enough to go for it if he wanted it. If he kept Fernando around, it was because he wanted Fernando. If he’d wanted some grim enforcer he would have—well, he wouldn’t be arguing so much with Hierro right now.

“Did they tell you to back off because you’re a wolf?” Raúl asked.

He’d spoken so softly that for a moment Fernando didn’t really hear him, still busy shaking off his own thoughts. But then the words penetrated. Fernando breathed in carefully, happened to glance at Raúl’s even more carefully composed face, and broke down in a fit of laughter. Way too edgy and maybe even hysterical, but oddly, he felt better afterwards.

“Was it Pep?” Raúl went on, his voice even lower.

“I know he wasn’t thinking of it like that,” Fernando said, his lingering amusement turning his tone so dry he had to wet his lips. “He was just trying to—to get me clear before Hierro picked a fight. Like going there’s somehow a more honorable way for me to back out, but he _was_ stuck in Hell.”

“Hell didn’t do that to him.” Then Raúl sighed and put his head back on Fernando’s shoulder. “Maybe it did. I don’t know. They haven’t been up here long enough to figure out what’s them and what’s just all that bullshit we were dealing with before.”

Fernando snorted again. “No, they haven’t, but if you want my opinion, they shouldn’t get to figure that out at our expense. It’s hard, all right, but they need to get that and work at it and screw up a couple times like we did. Like _Zlatan_ did, for all that he can be a complete sack of shit sometimes. And that’s from someone who still loves Hierro and Guardiola, and wouldn’t mind a chance to boot Zlatan into a deep lake.”

“Mori, it was a rat-demon broodmother,” Raúl said, with just a touch of asperity in his voice. “Of all the reasons you could hold grudges against Zlatan…”

“Also because he still tries to fry Villa every chance he gets, and that’d just defeat the purpose of you two finally getting friendly,” Fernando protested. “Of all the demons _Zlatan_ could pick to start a feud with…”

Raúl sighed, but the corners of his mouth were turned up. Then he put his chin up on Fernando’s shoulder, his eyes at half-mast. At first Fernando thought the other demon was falling asleep on him—not unexpected, with how ragged he was from running interference all the time—but then Raúl’s hand sneaked into his lap. Fernando’s brows shot up and Raúl grinned, still peering through his lashes, and scooted his head forward to kiss Fernando.

It seemed a little sudden and off-kilter to Fernando, and that apparently came through because Raúl’s mouth got tentative, but damn it, Fernando hadn’t been brought up to resist good urges like that. He made up for the lukewarm welcome by pushing them over onto the floor and working that one spot on Raúl’s neck—Raúl made a pleased sound in his throat, half a purr and half something deeper, more pointedly inviting, and began pulling at Fernando’s clothes.

The ribbons were annoying. When Fernando went to tug down Raúl’s jeans, his hand got snarled in a whirl of them and impatient, he just flicked out his claws and shredded them off with a few flips of the wrist. Normally Raúl would scold him or at least nip a body part, not wanting to deal with Figo’s complaining about scratch marks on the furnishings, but Raúl had at least one claw out himself. No way could he have gotten Fernando’s shirt off that quick without it, when his mouth was too busy licking down Fernando’s chest for any spells.

Whatever. Fernando wasn’t Figo, who nitpicked a lot for a man with his private library of black books. He shrugged off the sleeve that was still hanging on, kicked aside a wad of tissue paper, and pulled his attention away from Raúl nursing his nipple long enough to—damn it, his hand was sticky. Not in a good way.

“Oh, damn,” Raúl muttered. “That the—”

“You gave the kits caramel sauce again?” Fernando groped around, trying to find the jar and put it upright again, but he couldn’t see past Raúl’s head. “Took five hours to wash out their fur last time…”

Well, all right, he _could_ , but he’d have to get his face out of Raúl’s neck and he didn’t really feel like it. He wasn’t the one who offered himself up for the greater good five times before breakfast every day. Raúl was saying something in his ear, something about the kits asking when they were going to get off the roof and if that was going to keep the presents from coming, and that did make something twist guiltily inside of Fernando. But right then his hand knocked into glass—he grabbed, but too late. The jar rolled over his knuckles and then Raúl was bucking, muffling startled yips into Fernando’s shoulder as chilly caramel poured into his hair.

Fernando bit his tongue and tried to get the jar again—with his _sauced_ hand, which promptly got itself snarled in Raúl’s hair, and he didn’t actually _try_ to be this much of a goof. Not most of the time. He—he jerked himself up, then slumped down and blew out his breath, disgusted.

“I don’t know.” Raúl didn’t seem to notice that Fernando hadn’t been paying attention, but just kept talking, looking up at Fernando with an odd expression on his face. He was too careful with himself, working too hard at keeping something back that slipped and tugged at the edges of his eyes and mouth. “I just…it’s just fun sometimes, to give them a little bit. Even if it’s not really that good for them—but they’ve done so well anyway. Really well, with a whole new world and a new way to live and I just don’t see what’s wrong with being kind once in a while.”

He was rambling, Fernando thought at first, still distracted with his irritation at the caramel. The caramel at least had gotten warm from sitting out, so it was on the runny side and he could pull his fingers off Raúl’s head without taking hanks of curls with him. Then he looked at Raúl again and he saw the somberness in the other demon’s eyes. He straightened up, then bit his tongue again, on purpose.

“It’s not,” Fernando finally said. He wished he could come up with something better, but—that wasn’t how he was. “That’s it, you know. It was really hard before but it doesn’t—have to be like that. That’s the point. And being kind, it doesn’t mean listening to them when they’ve got their, their heads stuck in…in…Raúl. Raúl?”

Perfectly serious, Raúl let his hand hover by Fernando’s eye for a moment longer. He was concentrating so hard that Fernando instinctively froze so the man could get rid of whatever it was…and then Raúl poked him on the tip of the nose with a dab of caramel. Fernando stared at him, and Raúl dissolved into a sudden, silly, ridiculous and ridiculously pretty bundle of giggles. Actual giggles. Not even laughter, because from the looks of it, the laughs were cracking up before they could even get out.

“I’m trying to do the right thing here,” Fernando complained. He gave Raúl a little shake. “C’mon. The one time I really try—”

“I—ah—I—” Raúl had to make himself breathe “—know. I know. Whenever you do, you know, and I know it’s not just when you’re doing serious things like talking to them for me. It’s not just one time.” He wasn’t laughing now, but he still had that warmth coming off him, color in his cheeks, affection in the way his gaze passed over Fernando. “I’m always so glad you came with us. I’m so glad I can say you’re one of my family, you know.”

Fernando rested on his arms for a while, just looking back. Eventually he just—had to do something, so he ducked his head and pressed his face against Raúl’s throat. The heat there, the steady push of Raúl’s pulse against his brow, the smell of caramel and evergreen needles and a little pungent dried blood deep down under it all.

Something touched the back of his head, then ran lightly down it to cup the nape of his neck. Raúl made a low noise in his throat, stroking Fernando’s hair. The kind of noise he’d use to lull a kit to sleep, which made Fernando snort a little. The time since he’d been that young…he moved his head a little, then rubbed it up against the underside of Raúl’s jaw, not yet wanting to pull away. The sound Raúl was making changed, dropping in timbre, lengthening in beat. Slower but more insistent, more penetrating, getting deep under the skin where before it’d just skated the skin. Fernando rubbed his face again against Raúl’s neck, then bent his back so that he was rubbing his whole torso down to the hips against the other demon. He moved his hands.

Raúl arched between them, teeth grazing the top of Fernando’s cheek, knee twisting out from under Fernando. He made them some space and Fernando filled it, pressing his palms up Raúl’s thighs, following the come-go-come- _come_ of the hum in Raúl’s throat, the sound that still held his mouth there, impossible to drag away. He had his teeth there now, fixed to the singing flesh, and the blood was rising under them, but he couldn’t—he pressed them into the floor. Raúl twisted around him, ankles locked to his back, wrists digging into his shoulders, and he still went after that deep low sound, like something rolling up from inside of them, something coming from his throat now as they wound about each other. 

Fur under his hands now sometimes, thick stuff that scratched remembrances of itself into his fingertips. Then skin smooth as silk, even more slippery from the sweat. He lost his grip in one place and tumbled over trying to find it again, and he kept diving and would have kept falling if hard hands hadn’t taken him, held him back, held him till he’d found ground again.

And then Raúl curled on top of him, breath still slowing, beautiful jaw dropping so the light silvered the crescent curve of his teeth. He lifted a hand that felt made of stone and brushed a fang with his finger; the lip above it lifted, then stretched back as Raúl laughed at him. Smearing around more caramel. It was funny and it hurt a little, because the laughter shook so deep and pulled Raúl tight again around Fernando’s prick, and it was funnier, better for the little twinge.

“I just want everybody else, too,” Raúl said, the laughter slowing. He clenched again around Fernando as he laid his head down on Fernando’s chest; Fernando ran a careful hand down Raúl’s back till the muscles under his fingers slackened. “Why can’t I have that here? Can’t we? Isn’t that what being here is for?”

After a while, Raúl reached up and feathered his hand into Fernando’s hair till it loosely enclosed one ear. He drew breath as if to go on, but instead just breathed, quiet and still. Fernando moved one of his legs to accommodate Raúl’s hip and let Raúl lay there.

* * *

“Oh.” Guardiola froze on the stairs, the colors of him going thin and dark, as if someone had laid a smoked glass over him. In another moment he no doubt would have been indistinguishable from the shadows slanting over the rail.

Luís cleared his throat, then held out the mug in his left hand. He stared at Guardiola till the demon understood that there would be no disappearing, then tucked his arm with the untaken mug back to his side. Took a drink from the cup in his right hand, wiped his mouth with the side of his thumb, and then sighed. “While I am attached to the customs of my people, I was never so good a Catholic as to believe in the exclusion of the suffering simply because they don’t share my beliefs. It’ll be a bit spare, but I think if we swap out the tub for a mattress, the back bathroom should do. It’s only a few days more.”

“The room with no windows and extra insulation in the walls,” Guardiola said slowly.

“Because I woke up today and thought I’d turn into a serial killer of demons. No, because then you can’t smell the food or see the lights, or hear the awful pop music…which actually is a bit tempting for me, I have to say.” Then Luís snorted and tried not to smile in a way that’d raise Guardiola’s suspicions. “Never mind my sense of humor. What I’m saying is, I’m willing to accommodate your dislike for the holidays.”

Guardiola was still watching Luís as if he suspected that any moment Luís would foist a holly garland on his head, but he eased himself down so that they were on the same step. His hands moved a little and his ears flicked alert, then half-turned out before settling on slightly lowered but rigid. “I appreciate the offer—it means very much to you, I would imagine. But it’s really not—”

“No, it’s not the actual problem, but compromise is more than about both parties meeting in the middle. This kind is known to us humans as, I’m helping because I want a damned holiday and I can’t do that if Raúl’s constantly watching for you to righteously chew up my wreaths and you’re constantly falling ill at the sight of a plate of Christmas cookies.” After a moment, Luís took a deep breath and reminded himself that he hadn’t seen Cesc in an hour and Kun was not only a demon, but also a cat. There were other reasons why his temper could be frayed right now. “Sorry. Let me try again without the sarcasm.”

“It’s not necessary if I already see the point,” Guardiola muttered. He absently pushed the heels of his hands into his hips. “I…I am sorry. And Fernando is as well. We’re not trying to disturb your household.”

Luís pursed his lips a few times. Plenty of time to reconsider. “Are you?”

“We _are_.” The set of Guardiola’s jaw and shoulders hardened. His hands balled into fists flat against his thighs. “It hasn’t come out how any of us have wanted, all right? I’ve been wanting to tell Raúl for ages how well he’s done because he really _has_ , but—”

“But what? Your other’s overruled you?”

Guardiola actually moved forward. Then he jerked back and pressed his hands to his mouth. He held them there for a moment before finally looking back at Luís. “You’re very knowledgeable, and moreover, perceptive. But there are some assumptions you’ve no right to make, let alone any basis. Fernando and I know far too much about being ruled over to do that to each other.”

The mulled wine had a touch too much sugar, Luís decided. He took another sip, then decided that the next batch he’d try adding more orange peel as well.

“With the others it’s harder,” Guardiola said quietly, pushing his hand over the top of his head. He looked at the floor. “We should know with them too, but…try thinking about it for a moment. It’s never so harsh up here. Even the cold on the roof, it’s so mild compared to some of the places…and when it’s too bad, we have somewhere to go. We’re never looking over our shoulders for the next to chase us out. And if someone disagrees with us, they’ve time to tell us—and if they’re wrong, or if we’re wrong, either way…nobody dies.”

He shivered at the last word, then glanced towards the roof-door, pulling at his left ear with one hand. His other hand drifted up, going a little inwards from his side, then jerked from before it reached his stomach; the movement briefly stretched his shirt so that the faint curl of a scar was visible.

When he turned back, Luís offered him the wine again. Guardiola stared at it, then at Luís. Then took it, still looking at Luís. Arched a brow at Luís’ surprise, then lifted the mug and sniffed carefully at it.

“It’s an old family recipe,” Luís said after a moment. 

Guardiola cupped the mug in both hands as he sipped the wine, then lowered it. His tongue made a momentary bulge in his cheek and then he swallowed.

“Zinedine flexes his shoulders whenever another person comes into the shop and one of the kits is in the room, even if they’re hidden,” Luís added. “He remembers to keep his wings out of sight, but the thought’s still there that they might have come to steal—”

“It’s not like that. If we thought there was real danger, we wouldn’t—we know now that you can’t afford to wait and talk.” For a moment Guardiola’s eyes closed. Then he sighed and twisted the mug in his hands. “We kn—I _know_. I know this is different. I know when something is meant to hurt or kill or banish us. But it’s—that’s not there. And it is, like some ghost we can’t shake. It’s the absence of it that feels wrong to me now. I don’t want to say that I miss it, I _don’t_ miss it, but I act like it, don’t I?”

Luís began to reply, then stopped himself. He reached out and Guardiola looked up sharply, then back down.

“It’s good wine,” Guardiola said, pulling the mug towards himself and away from Luís’ hand.

“I know it is, but I’d prefer it to be drunk when it also makes the drinker feel good. That’s the point of it,” Luís answered. He left his hand out a little longer, then reluctantly withdrew it when it became obvious Guardiola wouldn’t willingly pass back the cup. “At risk of speaking the obvious to the clearly well-sighted, you have time. You’re immortal and you’re free. Eventually you’ll feel the way you think.”

Guardiola stared at him for so long that Luís began to wonder if maybe, if the demon was a bit more disoriented than he’d been letting on, it wasn’t so—but Guardiola suddenly chuckled. “You are an annoying—I know it’s a habit. I know, if Raúl somehow has the patience, that at some point I’ll damn well remember where we are and what he’s done before I open my mouth, but why does it sound better from you? You make me think it’ll be easy. You’re always doing it and I know you’re not using magic but it damn well feels like you should be.”

“It’s my mortal charm,” Luís said, unable to help an amused smile. Then he shrugged and drank some of his own wine, which he noted with half-hearted distaste was growing cold. “Raúl had the patience to insinuate himself into my life to the point that I sent him back to Hell to get you two. I doubt he’ll be running off any time soon. Though he also won’t be looking any less miserable…”

“I wish I could tell him—I would like to think that we fought and were trapped for so long for a good reason.” The corners of Guardiola’s mouth twisted into something that only bore a passing resemblance to a smile. “To come here and find out that, well, probably there was no damned reason, except for everyone’s persistent habits about fighting—”

“Giving the rest of your tribe a chance to come here first isn’t a good reason?” At Guardiola’s surprise, Luís lowered his mug and looked the demon fully in the face. “I thought that was why—that’s what Raúl told me. You were saving them.”

Guardiola blinked a few times. “Oh. He…well, I can see why he would say that. We were thinking of the tribe, and making sure that they survived. But it’s not exactly why—the point was to see that they lived to keep fighting a fight that I no longer think is worth it.”

“That might’ve been the point back then, but like you say, there’s no reason why that should be the point now,” Luís said. “And I still say it’s a good reason just that they had the chance to come here, and find out for themselves what they wanted to do with themselves. Does it really matter that you didn’t think of it back then, when they’ve thought of it now?”

The objection flashed into Guardiola’s eyes and…then sat there, slowly dimming as he thought. He frowned, then rubbed at the side of his face and muttered under his breath. Then he abruptly dropped his hand and exhaled, tired and frustrated and sarcastic. The struggle was still there, in his eyes and in the tension that was palpable through his whole frame, so many long-lived fears still trying to keep hold. But he was looking past it, at Luís.

“Look, I don’t want you to agree with me. Well, I do, but if it comes to that, I have options for waiting you out. So just sit with that idea for a bit and see whether it grows on you,” Luís added. He finished off his wine, then grinned. “I know I’m doing it again. But sometimes a little charm helps.”

Guardiola grumbled something at him that made the wards flare a little—nothing serious, just the magical equivalent of a kick in the shins—and buried his face in the mug.

“I’ve got more in the kitchen.” Luís nodded at the mug. “I know that’s new to you as well, but you’re welcome to keep testing it until you’ve made up your mind about it.”

“Oh, no, this isn’t, though your great-grandfather usually gave it a bit more of a punch,” Guardiola snorted. He took another swig, then looked up at Luís with guarded eyes. “Some of my memory is—”

“Was spotty. Yes. You mentioned that.” After another moment, Luís dropped his head to cough into his hand. “Convenient time to recollect him.”

Guardiola’s wariness changed a little. He was genuinely concerned now that he’d offended the human. “I know things have changed considerably, but I do think humans still have certain…er, moral…”

“I wouldn’t call it morals so much as…as the fact that he did _not_ put that in his journals,” Luís muttered. Then he gave up and laughed. “Well, if we can all agree that he knew his way around spirits, do you think Hierro would accept a mug too?”

“I…I’ll see.” The laugh had calmed Guardiola, but he was drawing his shoulders in again, looking over one at the roof-door. Then he sighed. “ _I_ should see. I think I do, a little, now, and Raúl shouldn’t always be the one…anyway, if I’m careful, he might. He likes you better than your great-grandfather, by the way. So do I. Your great-grandfather could be very short if one didn’t immediately understand him, and patience is something I’ve only admired even more since coming here.”

“I’ll get a thermos and put it here in case,” Luís finally said, tapping the step with his foot. Then he turned to go. “Well, he always seemed like a man I’d get along with, but when it comes down to it I do prefer myself, so I’m relieved to hear that you also agree.”

Guardiola’s laugh didn’t make it to the end of the hardly-lengthy staircase. But it was something to work with, and so Luís made his way back into the house in a far better mood.

* * *

When Raúl finally recalled himself to his responsibilities, it was his full intention to go upstairs and try again. But a squawking Silva and the smell of singed mistletoe sent Mori running into the front of the shop, and a series of mysteriously tangling garlands eventually led Raúl out to the back, where he barely dragged Kun away from a giant snarled ball of Luís’ lights.

“I just came out for a second,” Kun said, squirming under Raúl’s arm. “I had to take care of something, and then I just saw the sparkles, and they were so pretty.”

“Yes, but we have toilets. They’re better than burying it in the dirt. Go ask Cesc how to use them.” Raúl gave the other demon a last shove inside, then kicked the door shut. It was freezing and he hadn’t gotten his coat, but he thought the safer option was to hold the door closed till Kun was distracted by something else. At least indoors the wards should keep him from doing anything too disastrous. “My kits have more sense than that.”

The noise was raspy and thin, and stopped as soon as Raúl had started at it. He took a deep breath, then looked up at the roof.

Something scraped behind him and he spun around to find Hierro standing at the other end of the alley. His hand fumbled into something and he’d jammed his claws into it before he realized; the thing happened to be the stone wall and one of his claws snapped painfully near the root. He bit down on his tongue and just stopped himself from licking at his hand.

Hierro watched it all with a strange expression, hitching his shoulders when the claw snapped. He looked like—no, it was what he didn’t look like that made it strange. He didn’t look like he was going to cuff Raúl for it.

“You came down,” Raúl said after a long silence. He finally managed to step away from the door. His hand still hurt. He balled it up, then winced and settled for wrapping the hurt finger in the tail of his shirt. “Fernando. I…I wanted to…”

Fernando came up to him. Slow and silent, when the jarring shift of his limbs should have been accompanied with the sounds of struggle. It was as if someone had bent him out of shape and he’d still not remembered what the original angles were, how he’d held himself before—but he at least would keep the shambles as quiet as possible. He stopped at the other side of the tangled lights, looking at Raúl. Who made to pull the offending reminders away, but suddenly Fernando folded himself down and pulled free a strand.

“He came rolling out here with them,” Fernando muttered, twisting the wire this way and that. His brow furrowed and he stretched some of the lights out against his palm with his thumb, then let them snap back. “I thought he was playing. Then he pushed them into the wall, with the rest of the things he’d gotten, and I saw what he was doing.”

With the tip of his head he indicated a small jumble to their left. It was trash, Raúl thought at first. Then he looked closer and saw that the napkins weren’t stained, the crumpled sweatshirt still smelled of the laundry basket. And the tinned tuna was the good kind, the one Luís ordered online from Portugal. Kun had been making a nest. “What is he doing?” Raúl snorted. “I thought we told him we’d look after him.”

“It’s what they do.” When Raúl looked at him, Fernando raised his brows in that one way that always made Raúl regret speaking so thoughtlessly. “Cat demons fend for themselves. They don’t usually look after each other, not for long, and no one else does.”

“But it’s not…” Raúl bit his tongue again and ducked his head. Then he put out his hand for the lights. “Here. I’ll take care of them.”

“You’ve taken care of a good deal,” Fernando said, his voice dropping. He pressed his lips together, then sighed and looked away. “I don’t tell you this to insult you. I—you know, I used to know how to praise you. I wish that would come back.”

After another moment, he held out the lights. Raúl took them, but didn’t…he didn’t pull them away, and Fernando didn’t let go. Fernando lowered his arm a little but he kept looking at Raúl.

“The way I remember you, you would do what was needed without hesitation. But it never sat right with you till you had asked one of us, and you would worry till you’d talked to us about it,” Fernando finally added, almost hesitantly. It was like he wanted to know how Raúl would take it.

Raúl caught himself fidgeting with the lights and made himself stop. He couldn’t look Fernando right in the eyes—he made himself take a breath and then open his mouth. He had to say something. “I just wanted to make things better.”

“I know,” Fernando said, before Raúl could come up with something less childish-sounding. He stood there, about to go on, and Raúl would have let him.

Except suddenly his arm was around Raúl, firm and strong at Raúl’s back, and Raúl’s face was pressed into his shoulder, and—and Raúl had really missed him. Even if he was having so many problems now, and then causing them too, and it was harder with him than without him with some things, it was still better dealing with him. It’d hurt so much when he had been gone.

“You’re the leader now.” Fernando tightened his grip when Raúl stirred, then chuckled into the top of Raúl’s head. A trace of the old him, unquestionable but still warm, still someone to love as well as follow, came out in his voice. “That’s my last order. I know it’s changed, and…that’s how it is. You can’t change it back. It wouldn’t be right, and it wouldn’t stick. So…if you want to celebrate—”

“I want you to be happy,” Raúl said fiercely. “I want you to get back everything you missed, everything you paid for when you were down there. I want—I wanted you here and I still want you here and it doesn’t mean anything, what we’re doing, if you’re not there too. That’s why we do it, Fernando. Because it’s about what makes us happy.”

He felt Fernando move and grabbed onto him. The flesh under his hands went rigid, and…then slackened with Fernando’s heavy sigh. Raúl had known that that was coming, but it was all right, he decided. There were things that were fun and then things that really meant something.

Fernando gently pulled him away and looked him soberly in the eye. “I…” the other demon pursed his lips “…look, I don’t—see exactly like you do. Not yet. But I’ll still try. I can’t put up the lights, but if you want to show me, I’ll watch.”

Raúl started to say what needed to be said, steeling himself, and then babbled to an abrupt stop. He blinked. “What?”

A thin smile—but a real one—pulled at Fernando’s mouth. “Pep keeps telling me, at least if we didn’t get right what we were doing, our mistakes didn’t condemn you. I know I lose my temper, but you know now you’re not supposed to listen to that. You’re supposed to figure things out, and I’m supposed to try and let you. This is what I always wanted. If you can do it, and you have been, then I’m happy. I…forget sometimes. But you need to remember that anyway.”

If that was true, then Raúl should have figured out what to say to that, but instead he just hugged Fernando again. But maybe that was saying anyway.

* * *

Fox-demons probably couldn’t freeze to death, and when they found Raúl and Hierro, the two of them looked oddly comfortable snuggling together on the back step. But by that point Guardiola was chewing his claws over misplacing Hierro and Morientes was clearly thinking that Hierro was feeding Raúl his own tail or something equally dire, so Luís thought it was good enough reason to hustle them all back to the kitchen for some more mulled wine. And then he heard the commotion in the front of the shop.

“Figo, I’m going.” Zlatan stood half-out the front door, pulled up to his full, indignant stature, trying to set the corner on fire with his eyes. It would have been more intimidating without the neat little slits someone had made in his jeans-leg, which had left the denim flapping in the breeze in a hippie-ish fringe. “Sandro just rang up and bitched about me making Paolo wait to close up, and anyway if I hang around I’m gonna see how many lives I can waste off your stupid cat-demon. I don’t think you want that and I still like you, so…yeah. Bye.”

“Merry Christmas,” Luís called half-heartedly after him. He was actually quite grateful that Zlatan had helped out, but he would tell the demon that when Zlatan wasn’t making the wall smolder dangerously close to a show-cabinet of first editions. “Kun?”

Kun answered with an abstracted inquiring noise, and when Luís looked over, he found that Kun was checking himself out in the cabinet glass and tweaking his hair. Then Kun looked up, blinking curiously. “What? Something happen?”

“It would be uncharitable and also going back on my word to relocate you, but after the holidays we need to talk about your usefulness,” Luís finally said.

“I’m useful! I’m totally useful. See?” Kun untwined himself from his crouch and in a blurry two bounces had settled himself in the shop window, in cat-form. He stalked along the glass, his tail swishing, before abruptly plopping down and beginning to groom his tail.

Two women suddenly appeared at the window, framing their eyes with their hands as they peered in at Kun, cooing. Luís glanced at the door and realized Zlatan had accidentally flipped around the ‘Open/Closed’ sign as he’d left—and a fox had already spotted that and was scurrying along the wall. As a fox.

Villa undoubtedly had been under a good deal of strain, as with the other mature foxes, but still, he should’ve done better than freeze in place when the women bustled into the store just as he reached the door. He at least could have done it out of sight.

“Oh, my God! It’s adorable!” One woman scooped up Villa, whose eyes bulged as she began squeezing his body and petting his tail, apparently taking him for a child’s toy. She finally saw Luís and blushed a little, then held out Villa head-first. His eyes demanded that Luís toast them. “Is he for sale? He’d be perfect for my niece.”

Out of the corner of Luís’ eye, he saw the kitten head jerking in a distinctly sniggering motion. Then he coughed and apologetically shook his head. “Sorry, but that’s actually a gift for my own niece. It, ah, must have slipped out of the bag earlier.”

“Well, then would you mind telling me where you bought him?” she asked, still clutching Villa.

“Oh, it’s just around the corner. Hi! Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Kun said, smiling brightly at the woman’s elbow. He casually pulled Villa from her hands and then tossed him at Luís. “Can I have a sec, boss? I’ll just show them…”

When they were gone, Villa twisted himself out of Luís’ grip and back to human form. He furiously scuffed at himself with his hands. “That little _shit_. If he does something to them, good riddance.”

“Because then I’ll exorcise him? Somehow I think he’s not so stupid.” Luís went and flipped the door sign, then paused. Then he left the door unlocked, shaking his head at himself. “Let him in and then yell at him, David. I did promise Gila that we’d take care of him for now. Even if he really doesn’t need it.”

“Maybe he’ll fuck off with them,” Villa muttered mulishly.

“Possible, but I think his kind usually comes home.” That half of the house seen to, Luís headed back to the kitchen.

He had expected that Guardiola would now be enough help to keep any repeat of the earlier fight from occurring, but as Luís stopped in the doorway, he had to admit that this went a good deal further. 

For one thing, the kits were running around, and they almost seemed better than the adults at picking up when it was a bad time. Raúl and Hierro were sitting at the kitchen table, picking at a mass of knotted Christmas lights and chatting amiably enough. Occasionally Hierro’s shoulders would hunch as a kit ran by with a cookie or a yew twig, and Raúl would stop to look concerned. But Hierro would draw a deep breath and hesitantly inquire about something, and Raúl would gratefully restart the conversation.

Guardiola was at the stove where the wine was simmering. It looked like he was investigating the family recipe in a bit more depth, but then he glanced at Morientes, who was leaning against the fridge to his right and still looking the wariest of the four. “I’m sorry,” he said. “No, you’re right. It’s not an appropriate thing to say at this point.”

Morientes blinked hard. Then he resettled himself against the fridge. He was still eyeing the back of Hierro’s head as if it might grow fangs, but he accepted the mug Guardiola offered him. “Anyway, would it be a bad thing if you just let us work it out once in a while?” He drank some wine, then saw how Guardiola was looking at him and heaved an annoyed, rather adolescent sigh. “That was _once_ and I was a lot younger, and I’m a better fighter now.”

“No, I’m sure you could stand up to him. It’s just that everything’s so much more breakable up here,” Guardiola muttered, going back to sniffing at the pot. “Also, why _do_ the two of you always have to get into those fights? Look, I point this out only as a fact, not as any sort of disparagement, but you’re not the same kind of demon. Those instincts aren’t supposed to be triggered.”

“It’s not _instinct_ ,” Morientes said, irritated. Too irritated. “Not all the time. Sometimes he’s really annoying.”

Guardiola rolled his eyes. “Mori, if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s that the moment Fernando stands up on his back legs, you’re going at each other’s throats. It might start out in Raúl’s defense most of the time but that’s not why you go about it the way you…oh.”

He’d spotted Luís, who decided he might as well indulge his curiosity. There was probably never going to be an…appropriate…time, but this was the most relevant opening he was likely to get.

“So there’s a real distinction?” he asked. When Guardiola stared at him—and Hierro had fallen quiet as well—he resigned himself to a full explanation. It _had_ been bothering him, damn it, and if he didn’t get to ask this sort of thing once in a while, it really was a waste of available resources. “I know there is between you and say, Zlatan, but you and him—” he nodded at Guardiola and Morientes “—don’t vary that much in shape or size. You’re closer to Mori than you are to Raúl, so it…well, it occurred to me that it might be a spectrum, or series of stages.”

“Stages?” Hierro said.

“You might just evolve, eventually. From Raúl to one of you,” Luís said.

Morientes suddenly snorted. “Like Pokémon? Wait, one of the—I think it was Mata, he showed me…”

“Pokémon?” Hierro repeated, in exactly the same confused tone as before.

He looked at Morientes, but Morientes was wincing and mouthing an apology to Raúl. Who didn’t look very happy with Luís either, but one, Luís hadn’t brought up that comparison and two, eventually Hierro or Guardiola would wise up and ask a kit. It might be better to just break it to them now.

“No, we don’t _evolve_ to be bigger,” Raúl said, tone precise and glacial. “We’re born and we reach a full size and then stop. So some of us are smaller and have shorter legs.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that. I didn’t mean to suggest there was anything you’d need to improve on,” Luís quickly answered, suddenly seeing his mistake. “You’re fine as you are. I’m sorry, Raúl. Curious human moment.”

Raúl’s glower eased, but he still looked exasperated enough to make Luís regret his wording. Then he started, looking in shock at a snickering Morientes.

“Yes, you are,” Morientes said, pushing himself off the fridge. He went over and draped himself into half of Raúl’s chair, nuzzling the side of Raúl’s face. “You’re still the perfect size to—”

He fell off the chair from Raúl’s elbow without looking particularly ashamed of himself. For a moment Raúl glared at him, but then he sighed and gave Morientes a hand up. Meanwhile, Hierro and Guardiola were sharing well-worn looks of frayed tolerance.

“Perfect size for what?” Luís muttered.

Guardiola glanced at him, then finally put the lid back on the pot. He paused and carefully whiffed the air, then paused again. Then he…well, it wasn’t how Kun sidled, but it was still a sidle towards Luís. “I was curious about those cookies from earlier myself,” he said. “Perhaps we could…discuss?”

“Pep!” Raúl yelped.

“Trading embarrassing stories about loved ones at this time of year _is_ an old family tradition,” Luís mused.

Raúl opened his mouth, then shut it and just looked at them with deeply wounded eyes. Which grew less deep when Morientes went back to nuzzling him, and then finally gave up on the guilt-trip when Hierro reached across to ruffle his hair.

“It’s not a tradition I think I want to encourage with us,” Raúl muttered. But his tone barely rose to offended, and his eyes…his eyes were happy, watching them all. And that, as far as Luís was concerned, was the final say here.


End file.
